


I Feel So Useless

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [45]
Category: Flashpoint (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief Mentions of Character Death, Christmas, Hurt Spike, Implied Major Injuries, Other, Serious Injuries, Spike Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Feel So Useless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siennavie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/gifts).



> For the talented Siennavie because I have been a terrible person lately. Sorry about that! *offers gift fic as apology*
> 
> A/N: Title is from "Murder City" by Green Day. Do not own that song. I do not own Flashpoint, characters, nor do I make a profit. Please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

The Christmas tree was scraggily and lopsided, leaning heavy to the left, and even the tinsel adorning the limbs looked second-hand and tacky. Sam heaved a sigh, rolling his shoulders, and read the prescription bottle’s label for the thousandth time. The letters were blurring before his eyes, and “ibuprofen” was just becoming a black smudge.

Being startled was rare for the sniper, but Greg’s solid hands on his shoulders made him twitch—but not jump. The negotiator wrapped his arms around the blonde, softly taking the pills from him, and pressed a kiss to the spot behind his ear.

“He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

“He’s finally asleep,” The two looked up at Ed, who was leaning in the doorway and rubbing his eyes. “Wouldn’t shut up about how ‘three grown men can’t even find a decent tree’.”

Greg shook his head. A light snort of air brushed against the back of Sam’s neck before the older man let go.

“I tried to explain that we were kind of busy waiting for him to get out of surgery,” Ed shook his head, looking up at the ceiling like he was pleading with any God that would listen, “but he didn’t really seem to get that.”

“Sounds like him,” Greg shook his head. “Two shots to the stomach and he’s more worried about the tree.”

Sam tensed up again, at the mention of Spike’s wounds, and Ed tilted his head towards the bedroom down the hall. Greg tossed the prescription bottle back at the blonde, and strode towards the fridge.

“Why don’t you go sit with him?” The negotiator prompted, half-hidden by the fridge’s insides, when Sam just stood there with the orange bottle of oblong white pills. “Keep him from getting up and trying to escape to find a better Christmas tree.” Ed made an exasperated sound as he collapsed onto the couch.

“I swear! They must have given him the good stuff…” The older sniper chuckled, “two hours after surgery and he’s trying to check out AMA to go buy the damn tree.”

Sam’s skin filled back in a little, gaining some pink to fix the hue of his pale skin, and shuffled towards the room without a word.

Once out of ear shot, Greg closed the refrigerator and took a seat next to Ed. He could tell the older sniper was still processing, not totally there, so Greg rubbed his thumb over his partner’s knee as they sat—staring at the blank television.

“They didn’t tell you,” the bald man said quietly, “I asked them not to—I didn’t want Sam to hear—but they lost him on the table… at the beginning. Got him back, but still…”

Greg’s grip on Ed’s knee tightened.

“…and once, in the ambulance, too.” He finished while dropping his gaze to the floor. “I had to sit there, and not touch him, Greg, while they shocked the shit out of him trying to get his heart going again.”

“He...” Greg leaned back against the couch, leaving his hand on the top of Ed’s thigh and not commenting as the sniper intertwined their fingers. “He made it, that’s all that’s important. I don’t think we should tell Sam—he’s not handling this very well as it is.”

“I think that too, but can you blame him?” The bald man sighed, “He watched—and he couldn’t do anything. Those hostages were in the way. There was no shot, and he had to watch as Hellinger put two bullets in Spike.”

The negotiator didn’t respond, just squeezing Ed’s hand, and pulled the sniper from the couch as he stood himself. They didn’t need words, just shut off the living room lights and pulled the curtains before stripping down to their boxers and slipping into the master bedroom.

Ed sighed again.

Spike was laying on his back, bandages tight around his belly, with a layout of his limbs that just looked odd on the bomb technician. Spike _always_ slept on his side, or on his belly. Never on his back—but the doctor had vetoed that, and so Spike (without much choice, as his three lovers manhandled him—gently—back onto his back if he tried to sleep on his front or side) was sleeping on his back.

The orange pill bottle was on the nightstand, just below the lamp. Its presence alone made the atmosphere tense.

Sam—usually the one to sprawl out, now that he didn’t have to conform to small military beds—was on his side, curled up tight. His head was just barely touching Spike’s bicep, and his knees were pressed against the brunette’s thigh. One of his arms was under his head as a makeshift pillow, and the other was tucked between his and Spike’s bodies. His fingers just grazed the younger man’s ribs, perfectly above the line of white bandages.

“’s terrible tree.” They heard Spike mumble, and Ed rolled his eyes. _Not asleep, then_ , the older sniper thought.

“I know.” Sam murmured back, “Get another one when you’re better. We only got one ‘cause you kept getting out of the hospital bed and ripping your stitches until we did.”

“It’s the Scarlatti tradition,” Spike slurred, “always get a tree the day after Thanksgiving.”

“Your health is more important than the tradition.” Sam huffed, and one of Spike’s hands ran sloppily though the blonde locks before Sam pressed the bomb tech’s arm back to his side with a reminder to stay still.

“… ma and dad are gone,” Greg closed his eyes at the subtle hitch of Spike’s words. “I have to keep up the traditions, so I don’t lose them.”

“Shhh,” Ed pacified, crawling into bed and startling the two—who hadn’t known they were there, standing just beyond the doorway, “It’s all right. We’re all okay, that’s all that matters. Do you need another pain pill?”

Spike shook his head, fisting his hand in Greg’s shirt and pulling him into the bed as Ed grabbed an extra blanket from the closet.

He tucked it around the bomb tech, trying to cover Sam as much as he could. The blonde protested, pulling the section on him off and tucking Spike further into the blanket.

“I’m not hurt. He is.”

Greg and Ed shared a look.

“Okay,” Greg said sleepily, “can we all agree that we’re all tired?”

Ed laughed, and Spike cracked a smile—trying to reach up and wipe away the stray tears on his cheeks but Sam kept him arms immobile.

“Yeah,” the bomb tech croaked, “I think we can.”

Spike, for the umpteenth time, tried to roll onto his side to clutch onto one of his lovers but Sam quickly halted the action. Any color he’d regained dissipated into a white expanse of skin.

“Don’t move,” He chastised roughly, “You’re going to rip your stitches again. You’re hurt enough as it is, Spike. I don’t think the Emergency Room wants to see you again.”

“Nah,” Greg smiled, “All those nurses were cooing over him. I’m sure they wouldn’t complain.”

“Shut up, I’m trying to sleep,” Ed grumbled into his pillow as he lightly kicked Greg in the shin.

“Alright, alright,” The negotiator conceded, “bed time.”

Ed griped something again, but Greg was sure it wasn’t for polite ears.

“Don’t scare me like that again.” They both heard Sam whisper to Spike.

“I’ll try not to.” Was Spike’s weak response.


End file.
